The Damned Utd

Day Forty

You’re sorry now, you’re sorry now, you’re so fucking very sorry now –

You thought you’d never get away. You thought Mike Bamber would never let you leave. You thought he’d lock you in your room at the Courtlands Hotel, Brighton. Then you thought Peter would never agree to come back with you. Not back to Derby with you. Not tonight. Then you thought you’d never find a car. Not at that time. Not to go to Derby. Never find a driver. Then the journey took a lifetime. The traffic. The weather. You thought you’d never make it. Thought the meeting would be over by the time you got here. But here you are, back home in Derby. Here for the meeting at the King’s Hall, Derby –

The King’s Hall packed. Standing room only. The King’s Hall expectant –

You climb onto the stage. You raise your hands. You fight the tears –

‘We took the job because we were out of work,’ you tell the King’s Hall, Derby. ‘We are football men and the position was open.’

You have come to say goodbye. You have come to say thanks –

‘Thanks for everything you’re doing,’ you tell them. ‘And don’t forget to support Roy McFarland …’

You start to cry. You cannot stop. You hand the microphone to Pete and Peter says, ‘I think we’d better cool it now. But thank you for your support.’

But the Derby County Protest Movement don’t agree. The Protest Movement don’t agree to cool it. The Protest Movement still want you back –

‘This is incredible,’ you tell John Shaw. ‘If I can get back to Derby, I will.’

‘But we’re not going back,’ Taylor tells you. ‘There can be no going back, Brian. Not now. Not now we’ve signed for Brighton. We should all get on with the rest of our lives and stop misleading people. The Protest Movement, the players, the people of Derby. It’s not fair; not fair on them, not fair on Dave —’

‘Fuck Dave Mackay,’ you tell him. ‘Fuck him.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ he says. ‘You’re only hurting him and hurting yourself. Half these folk that are protesting, asking for you back, they’re only doing it to get a bit of free publicity for their businesses, jumping on the bandwagon to promote themselves.’

‘Fuck off!’ you tell him. ‘Fuck off!’

‘Open your eyes, man,’ he tells you. ‘Look around you. No one cares about you. No one cares about Derby County. About a little fucking football club.’

‘Fuck off!’

‘We’ve resigned, Brian. We’ve got new jobs,’ he says. ‘It’s time to move on.’

You storm out. You slam the doors. You walk the streets of Derby. You find a taxi. You get a free lift home. You push open your front door. You run up the stairs. You fall down onto your bed and pull the covers over your head –

‘What have I done?’ you shout and scream. ‘What have I fucking done?’

It is Thursday 1 November 1973.